


Give Me Fire

by Saki101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Fire, Hiatus, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, Post-Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Sherlock finds a way to communicate with John during the Hiatus or maybe John finds a way to communicate with Sherlock.</p><p>An AU where the events following <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwntNANJCOE">Many Happy Returns</a> go very differently.</p><p>Excerpt:  John picked it up. Such a small thing. Thin. Light. A perfect circle waiting inside.</p><p>              He flipped it over, watched the sunlight bounce off the silver surface. Like a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written to [1electricpirate's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/pseuds/1electricpirate) evocative prompt: "give me fire". It took me in completely unexpected directions.
> 
> A photoset to accompany the story may be seen [here](http://saki101.tumblr.com/post/146658771575/finally-had-a-chance-to-do-the-graphic-id-had-in).

**~~~~~~~~~~oo0oo~~~~~~~~~**

“Greg, yeah, thanks for stopping by…and for the…” John waved towards the sitting room.  


“Let’s not leave it for so long next time,” Greg replied.  


***  


John picked it up. Such a small thing. Thin. Light. A perfect circle waiting inside. 

He flipped it over, watched the sunlight bounce off the silver surface. Like a mirror.  


He opened the case, slid the shining disc into the dark.  


A window opened.  


***  


“…Right. I just…I need a moment to figure out what I’m going to do,” the shadow of Sherlock said on the screen.  


“I can tell you what you can do. You can stop being dead.” John half turned away, the whiskey hot on his tongue.  


“Okay,” Sherlock's voice said.  


John stared.  


The doorbell rang.  


***  


There was a quick rap at the door.  


John put the entry phone back in its cradle and opened the door partway.  


“I was running an errand round the corner and thought I’d come by and say hello,” she said.  


John glanced below her right shoulder. She usually wore the name tag there.  


“I’m sorry, how…”  


“Your neighbour let me in,” she interjected. “I think he might have been a little high.” She leaned forward, made a small sniffing sound and smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a drink. Invite me in?”  


John held up a finger. “Let’s go out,” he said and reached behind the door for his jacket.  


***  


“There,” she said, pointing at a round table nestled in a corner beneath an arbour of wisteria.  


“Nice place,” John said as they slipped onto the cushioned bench.  


“One of my neighbours recommended it,” she replied.  


“Nice neighbours,” John said.  


John felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.  


“I’ll only be a moment,” she promised, sliding away. She looked over her shoulder as she walked towards the ladies. She smiled when she saw he was watching.  


“Martha…Molly…,” John murmured, shaking his head.  


The server arrived with cutlery and menus. She lit the candle on the table before John could stop her.  


“Moira…Meredith…”  


The flame flickered in its little glass pot.  


“Sherlock…” John drew back. His drink sat unfinished at home; there was no reason to be hallucinating. He leaned forward.  


The centre of the flame resembled a hooded figure. It wavered as the flame flickered in the draught. Its face was in shadow until a long-fingered hand reached up and pushed the red hood back. The face grew larger then, like a camera was zooming in on it.  


Eyes dilating, John thought. He let out a long, slow breath.  


The face was Sherlock’s, just as it had been in the video.  


“Maybe I shouldn’t have watched it,” John whispered. He licked his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the flame.  


Suddenly, a server was at his elbow. “Oh, I’m sorry that’s gone out,” he said. “Let me fix that.”  


The rekindled flame burned tall and bright.  


***  


“I hope you feel better,” she said.  


John opened the car door before she could lean closer. “Need an early night is all,” he said. “Sorry about dinner.”  


“A drink was fine,” she said. “Thank you.”  


“See you Monday, then,” John said and shut the door.  


***  


John set the bag of peas on the counter, got out a sauce pan and struck a match to light the hob.  


He dropped it when the flame reached his fingers.  


***  


The silver disc shone in his hands. He would not have to press very hard to break it.  


***  


The hallway was quiet, Mrs Hudson’s door dark.  


John looked up the stairs, patted the matchbox in his pocket.  


***  


Orange-tinged shadows flickered over the walls.  


Mrs Hudson’s grip tightened on the frying pan. She took a step into the dusty room. “Sherlock?” she whispered.  


John stood.  


“I suppose it had to be one of you,” she said and lowered the pan.  


***  


John set down his tea, picked up the disc and held it out. “Do you want to watch it?”  


She took it in both her hands, turned it over once. “Perhaps later.”  


***  


“It’s been so quiet without either of you here,” she said. “And not even a phone call after everything we’ve been through.”  


“I am sorry,” John said. “Maybe I should have stayed.”  


“You’re welcome back, you know,” she said.  


John looked around the room. “Last time something was taken from me I was sent away from everything else I knew. This time, I did it to myself.”  


“Sometimes that’s the right thing to do, sometimes it’s not. Offer still stands,” Mrs Hudson said and smiled at him.  


He turned back to her. “I’ve got a full time job now,” he said. “Even so, the rent would be a stretch on my own.”  


“You don’t need to. I tried to tell you that before you left, but you…”  


“I couldn’t impose like that,” John interrupted.  


“Maybe this time, John, you should let me finish what I’m trying to say,” she said.  


“Right, okay,” he replied and pressed his lips into a thin, closed line.  


“About a month before…you know…Sherlock paid two years’ worth of rent in advance...all of it…not only his share,” she said.  


John’s eyebrows shot up.  


“He said he’d been paid for some big case and if he gave it to me then he wouldn’t have to waste time thinking about rent every month. I was pretty delighted, I can tell you, but afterwards…well. That’s why I tried to give you your rent money back,” she said.  


“Why two-years’ worth?” John murmured.  


Mrs Hudson shrugged. “I’d assumed that was how much he’d been paid for the case.”  


“There was no case that I knew about. ‘Course, I obviously didn’t know everything he was doing,” John said.  


“How could any of us know what went on in that funny old head of his?” She sighed. “I’ve been glad I haven’t had to look for other tenants. I don’t really want anyone else up here.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You know those things I boxed up? I never had anyone collect them. They’re all still sitting in the kitchen covered in dust.”  


“Can I stay tonight?” John asked.  


Mrs Hudson nodded. “Come down and have dinner. We’ll open the windows in here and find you some clean sheets.”  


***  


John pecked out the email to his landlord by firelight. He pushed send and stretched, phone still in hand, back arched against the front of Sherlock’s chair, feet touching his own.  


The fire hissed.  


John opened his eyes.  


The flames were licking at the fire bricks, shooting up the flue. They framed the face in the red hood.  


At this size, the lips were easy to read.  


“Soon,” they mouthed.  


***  


Sherlock was stood on the coffee table, deducing at breakneck speed, hands waving, dressing gown swirling, all the light in the room converging on him in a tall, bright column.  


John couldn’t distinguish the words, but he knew that rapid-fire cadence.  


Sherlock stopped speaking and turned, his face aglow. “I’m going to be with you again, very soon.”  


John sat bolt upright in the bed, the words echoing in his head.  


He went out to the sitting room, fell back to sleep by the hearth.  


In the morning, the fire was still burning.  


***  


“Oh God, I need a cup of tea,” John said passing the receptionist on his way into the staff room.  


“There’s fresh-baked gingerbread,” she replied, gesturing with her head, hands full of tea and biscuits.  


John re-filled the kettle, switched it on and studied the plate of sweets in the middle of the table. They were decorated with either blue eyes and red buttons or red eyes and blue buttons.  


The kettle clicked off.  


John turned to find…Mary…thank God for name tags…holding out his mug to him.  


“Heard you’d moved,” she said. “I liked that location.”  


A bit of tea sloshed over the side as he took the cup.  


John winced. “Want me to put in a good word with the landlord?” he asked, switching hands and pressing the scalded one against his lab coat.  


“Maybe,” she said, walking towards the table.  


He stepped around her, set the mug down and turned on the cold tap. He poured the tea down the drain and refilled the mug with water.  


When he turned round again, Mary was holding out the platter. “I baked these this morning,” she said. “Try one.”  


“Love to,” he said, “but gluten intolerance.” He watched her brow furrow just a little.  


“I didn’t re..alise,” she said.  


“They smell lovely though,” he replied and headed towards the door. “They’ll be a big hit with the staff.”  


***  


John lifted the cover of the tin on the mantelpiece in the hallway and took a deep breath.  


“Oh, John, I’m glad you’re home,” Mrs Hudson said, coming out her door, a wave of ginger and cinnamon following her. “Have you told many people that you’ve moved back?”  


John stopped, ginger snap halfway to his mouth. “Not really. Mike and Greg. The Royal Mail. I’ve done a forwarding order for first-class post. Why?”  


“A woman came by this morning, just after you left. She said you’d forgotten something at her house.”  


John put the biscuit back in the tin. “These?” he asked.  


“No, I put those out here just a minute ago. I hadn’t even made it to the kitchen when I heard you coming in.”  


John put the cover on the tin.  


“She didn’t leave anything in the end. Said she thought it would be better to give it to you in person after all.”  


“Did she ask any questions?”  


Mrs Hudson tilted her chin up. “No, but she said things about you, like how forgetful you are and short-tempered then waited as though she thought I’d say something back one way or the other.”  


“I’m guessing you didn’t satisfy her curiosity,” John said.  


“Well, if seeing my hair in curlers was what she was curious about, then she went away satisfied. Otherwise, no,” Mrs Hudson said. “I had reporters, you know, lurking around here for months. They tried all sorts of things to get information from me. I thought it odd that one would pop up after all this time, but she seemed like one of them.”  


John took out his phone, swiped the screen a few times. “Her?”  


“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said, looking at the photo of the woman and John at a cosy table with a lit candle on it. “If you _are_ seeing her…”  


“No! No. She’s new at the surgery. The night I came by here, she’d stopped by my flat. Got one of my neighbours to let her into the building and tried inviting herself in for a drink. I took her out for one instead,” John explained. “I’d been watching the video Greg left. It was still on the screen.”  


“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said, her hand plucking at her collar.  


“She wanted a selfie, but her phone had no more space on it or something, so she asked me to use mine and email it to her.”  


“Did you?” Mrs Hudson asked.  


“Not exactly. She offered to put her address in my phone, but I emailed it to my work address and said I’d get her a copy on the Monday,” John said. “I’ve become rather picky about who touches my phone.”  


“You were wary of her,” Mrs Hudson said.  


John shrugged. “If Greg hadn’t brought that video over, maybe I wouldn’t have been.”  


“So did you send her the photo from your work email?”  


“I was going to print out a copy and give it to her, but I keep forgetting,” John said.  


“She hasn’t reminded you?”  


John shook his head.  


“Maybe she’s already got at it somehow.”  


John did not contradict her.  


“Well, if it shows up in _The Sun_ with who knows what story about you, neither of us will be surprised,” Mrs Hudson said.  


“I hope that’s the worst that will happen.”  


***  


The hearth was cold. Scattered over the pyramid of logs were the charred remnants of matches that had blown out, twists of paper that had turned to ash without producing a flame.  


John set the poker aside, picked up his mobile and punched at the keys.  


“Mike, is that teaching position you told me about already filled?”  


He walked to the desk and sat.  


“Opening my email now. Just a second.” John tapped at the keyboard. “Got it. Yes. I’ll forward you a copy. Let’s hope for the best.” He nodded and sighed. “Yeah, you were right. The surgery wasn’t what I wanted.”  


There was a crackling behind him. John turned and watched the fire dance.  


***  


“John, you haven’t taken up smoking, have you?” Mrs Hudson asked.  


John looked over the top of the newspaper. “No, why?”  


“There are a lot of cigarette butts around the front steps and along the pavement. Mr Chatterjee said they’ve been sweeping them up every morning and Mrs Turner said they’ve been falling down the grate over the windows of her basement flat.”  


“Sounds like more than one person,” John said, “but I haven’t heard anyone out there.”  


“I should have known it wasn’t you,” Mrs Hudson said, sitting down. “There’re ones out back by the bins, too.”  


***  


John lit a candle and stared into it.  


“What are you doing?”  


He caught only a glimpse, but he knew the shape of those lips.  


“Can’t be soon enough,” John murmured.  


***  


It was more like patrolling than walking. John brought his gun with him more often than was perhaps wise, took the bus rather than the Tube, left work before or after rush hour whenever he could. If he had told anyone, they would have thought him paranoid. He did not care. He could feel it.  


The footpath was nearly empty. The man bumping into him set off alarum bells.  


“Excuse you,” he called after the man and spun around, elbows out, the second word still on his lips.  


The man screamed before John’s elbow dug into his abdomen. He fell back smacking at his clothes. A syringe fell from his hand.  


John snatched it off the ground.  


A yell rose up from the corner. John spared a glance in that direction. There was a crowd gathering near the kerb. A flame shot up and the crowd fell back.  


“Jesus Christ, help me,” the syringe-wielder screamed, his voice rising higher with each syllable.  


His clothes were smouldering.  


John banged on the window of Speedy’s and dashed behind the counter as soon as Mr Chatterjee unlocked the door.  


The man on the pavement whimpered, covered in foam.  


John set the fire extinguisher aside. He could hear the sirens. He took the syringe out of his pocket. “Shall I give you some of this while we wait?” he asked.  


“Yes,” the man cried as he rolled on the ground. “God, yes.”  


John held it up in one gloved hand. “So what was supposed to happen after you put me to sleep?” he asked.  


“Give it to me!” the man yelled.  


“Answer my question,” John replied quietly, switching the syringe to his other hand.  


The man’s lips drew back from his teeth. “You was to be the Guy, mate,” he said.  


***  


John sat by the hearth.  


“Is this why you came to me in fire?” he asked.  


The logs only smoked.  


“I appreciate the heads-up.”  


***  


The stone was cold beneath his feet. The skin on his back was on fire.  


John woke, panting.  


***  


“Where are you?” John shouted at the mound of ashes.  


“Soon.”  


His head whipped around. He had heard it.  


“Are you closer? What can I do?”  


“Give me fire.”  


“The wood won’t burn,” John hissed. "I've used all the matches."  


“Soon.”  


It was a plea.  


“Right. Fire,” John ran to the kitchen.  


He flung stuff out of drawers, found a lighter. He cupped the flame and turned towards the hearth. The flame blew out. He tried again. The flint split and fell on the floor.  


His eyes darted around the kitchen.  


There.  


He ran up the stairs.  


John took aim at the logs and fired.  


The whiskey burst into flame. Blue jets shot from the centre of the rolled newspapers. The logs began to crackle.  


The whole room seemed to sigh, “Soon.”  


***  


“It is good to see you, John. It has been too long,” Angelo said, patting John’s shoulder. “Anything you like. On the house.” Angelo drew his hand away and pressed it to his heart. “Do not wound me by saying no.”  


John shook his head. “I won’t say no, Angelo.”  


“Good, good,” Angelo replied, his eyes bright. “Whatever you want, I will make it myself.”  


John took a deep breath. “I would like Sherlock’s favourites,” he said and closed the menu. “I think you know what they are better than I do.”  


“Ah,” Angelo said, looking upwards. “A good choice, a beautiful choice.” He picked up the menu. “I will bring you a candle.”  


John took a sip of water and put the glass down. He pulled off a piece of bread, drew it back and forth through the golden oil in the little dish.  


Angelo set the candle on the table. “First course coming soon,” he said and hurried away.  


John stared at the flame in its small glass chamber. “When, Sherlock? When?” he whispered.  


“Now,” Sherlock said.  


The voice sounded deeper than John remembered. He scowled, looked up slowly from beneath his furrowed brows.  


The shirtfront he saw was white, the chest within it broader than he recalled.  


“Are you real?” John breathed.  


“Check,” Sherlock said and the fine, deep voice had a quaver to it.  


John raised an arm, curved it cautiously around the fine, dark jacket. He could feel the warmth beneath the fabric, the solidness of the hips. A hand settled over his, the thumb stroking back and forth.  


John tilted his head further back. He could see the pinkness around Sherlock’s eyes. “We should go home,” he said.  


Sherlock nodded.  


John closed his eyes for a moment. “Angelo will be upset.”  


“No,” Sherlock said. “I asked him to send it round later.”  


The laugh came out a bit strangled. “Should we bring the candle?”  


“I think Angelo would be pleased.”  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This needs an epilogue.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon Sherlock's return, there are many things to explain and explore.
> 
> Excerpt: The stitches were tiny and neat, reducing the cross-hatching of wounds to the thinnest of red lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that _Give Me Fire_ should have an epilogue, primarily to provide the scene after the reunion. Several kind readers expressed their agreement with that notion, which was a great encouragement to actually get it written! Thank you all! :-D

~~~~~~oo0oo~~~~~~

The stitches were tiny and neat, reducing the cross-hatching of wounds to the thinnest of red lines.

“I didn’t know this could happen." His hand hovered above the scored flesh, his eyes measuring each perfect angle, the length of every exact line. "How could this have happened?” He bent closer, his breath cool on the healing skin. “I am so sorry...although...it may have been this that saved my life.”

“Glad to help,” John said, turning his head. One eye was visible over the swell of the pillow. “I am so very glad to have been able to help.”

With a long exhalation, Sherlock stretched out by John’s side. He fit the hollow of his cheek to the curve of John’s shoulder, rested his forearm beneath John’s buttocks. “They had the last piece. I thought I could be in and out and gone before anyone realised I’d been there.” His fingers tapped patterns on the side of John’s thigh. “I got impatient.”

John hooked a foot over Sherlock’s shin.

“I had already made it to the woods when they started after me.” 

John pulled Sherlock’s leg closer, rubbed the arch of his foot over the calf. “I heard a helicopter.” 

Sherlock ground his forehead against John’s shoulder. “I had promised myself I would come back to you and we...” He sighed. “Seems I brought you to me.” 

“The stone was cold,” John said.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t breathe when I woke up. It was too dark in here. I wanted light.” John paused. “In the sitting room the fire had gone out.”

“Their interrogation technique was counterproductive.”

“You were unconscious,” John said.

“For a while.”

“You asked for fire,” John said.

Sherlock lifted his head. “Did I?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t get it to light.”

“What did you do?”

“I poured whiskey on the logs and shot at them.”

Sherlock laughed and propped himself up on his elbow. “I did come to with a jolt.” He brushed the hair off John’s forehead. “No one called the police?”

“I wrapped a towel around the barrel,” John said, pulling Sherlock’s hand down to his lips and pressing kisses to the ring of bruises around his wrist.

“Good thinking,” Sherlock said. 

John tucked the hand under his chin. “So what happened?” 

“My interrogator came back and I told him that he could catch his neighbour, the coffin-maker, and his wife in flagrante if he went home right then,” Sherlock replied.

“That could have got you a boot in the groin,” John said.

“Yes, it was a risk,” Sherlock admitted. “But he did leave.”

“And you got all that after just regaining consciousness?”

“I have missed your admiration, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering over John’s face. “I had deduced the guard’s situation earlier, but it hadn’t been the right time to get the desired results from sharing it.”

“You needed to wait until his wife and her lover were shagging.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said.

“How could you know that?”

“You know my methods, John.”

“I do. How long were you held?” John asked.

Sherlock brushed a finger over his chin. “Not quite two days.”

“Did you ever see the wife?” John asked.

“No.”

“How ‘bout the coffin-maker?” John pressed.

“No.”

“So you were able to deduce that two people that you had never seen were having sex at a particular time in a location at some distance from where you were?” John asked.

Sherlock pressed a finger against the corner of his lips. “Yes.”

“You overheard some gossip? Someone asking your interrogator about his wife in an insinuating tone? I’m guessing you understood the language,” John continued.

“No, yes and yes,” Sherlock replied. He bunched a pillow up and shoved it under his chin, his eyes still on John. “Where have you been honing your deductive skills, Doctor Watson?”

“I’ve been re-reading my notes on our old cases,” John replied.

Sherlock smiled. “Go on, then.”

“And the interrogator wore a wedding ring?” John continued.

Sherlock nodded.

“Anything else? A photo of her in a wallet that you glimpsed?”

“He had a kerchief of hers that he kept in his breast pocket. It was perfumed with an expensive French pefume. Apparently, beating people senseless pays well. I could smell the fragrance when he leaned in close to me,” Sherlock said.

“Nothing else?” John persisted.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “Nothing else,” he replied.

“Then you could not have known that the interrogator’s wife was shagging the coffin-maker at the very time you were telling your interrogator about it,” John concluded.

“But I did,” Sherlock insisted, drawing his hand away from John to gesticulate with it. “I could smell how her perfume intensified when they began to sweat.” His voice grew quieter. “The coffin-maker loved her perfume. He would bury his nose in her hair, taking big, gasping breaths of it, while he thrust up into her, one of her legs on his shoulder, the other hooked around his waist. She made small sounds as she got closer to her climax and his arm around her waist would tighten. I could feel how he felt inside her. How he felt when he heard her sounds, how he thrust harder because he wanted to be deeper, as deep as he could be inside her.”

John’s hand slipped down between them to Sherlock’s thigh. “Thinking a lot about sex were you?” John asked. He brushed his hand over Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and shut his eyes.

John stroked with his fingertips.

“When I was falling asleep…” Sherlock said.

John kept stroking, feather light. “Did you notice the candle on the dresser?” he asked.

Sherlock’s cheek rubbed against the pillow as he nodded.

“When the candle was lit, the dreams were clearer,” John said.

Sherlock lifted his head. “What dreams?”

“The ones I started having after you began appearing in candle flames and such,” John said. “When our backs heal, we can try more of those positions you imagined,” he added with a knowing smile. He rolled onto his side, his hand returning to Sherlock's skin.

“Are you suggesting that…”

“…you couldn’t come to those conclusions about the interrogator’s wife in your usual ways? Yes.” John’s hand stilled. “I think that information came to you along with your other deductions about this man, whom you desperately needed to manipulate, but that your awareness of his wife's affair came via this affinity with fire, which includes..." John trailed his fingertips over Sherlock's belly. "...the metaphorical fire of passion.”

Sherlock sat up and John's hand fell away. “No. I overheard the guards joking about the coffin-maker needing to make an extra long one for me and the interrogator saying that he'd give him the message when he got home," Sherlock explained. 

"Fine. That's how you knew the interrogator had a coffin-maker for a neighbour, but it doesn't explain knowing about the affair," John said.

"I could smell the scent of fresh wood shavings mixed with the fragrance of her perfume," Sherlock said, waving his fingers beneath his nose. 

“And from that you could know how the coffin-maker felt when his mistress moaned as he made love to her?” John asked. He raised his hand and touched Sherlock’s cheek. “Or are you denying that you dreamt of me?”

“No, I’m not denying that,” Sherlock said, his brows drawing together.

“Are you saying that they weren’t dreams of passion?” John asked.

Sherlock stared at the wall.

“Don’t go to your Mind Palace now,” John said, rising up on his elbow and kissing Sherlock’s chin. “I have no complaints. I was waking up feeling better than I have in years. Regular orgasms will do that.”

Sherlock blinked.

“I’d stopped myself thinking of it after you…left,” John said.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to John. “You used to…”

John smoothed one hand over Sherlock’s curls. “You were rather hard not to think about.” He traced the curve of a cheekbone. “What with these and your coat collar turned up. God, all the different ways I thought about getting you out of that coat or having you in it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Afterwards…yeah…I couldn’t help the occasional dream, but they usually ended with you on the edge of that damned roof.” John’s hand dropped to his side.

Sherlock leaned forward, tucking his knees under him. “Can you forgive me, John?”

John reached out for Sherlock’s shoulder with a sigh. “They were hard, bitter months. I thought I had died, but no one had bothered to bury me,” John said. He glanced away. “I would have chosen to go with you, but you’ve told me why you had to go alone and I understand.” His hand tightened on Sherlock’s shoulder. He looked back at Sherlock, pulled him close enough to kiss and held him there, with his hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock’s eyes closed.

“And yes…” John said and paused. He leaned back and waited for Sherlock’s eyes to open again. “I can, and I do, forgive you.”

Sherlock looked down, blinking.

John rose to his knees, tilted Sherlock’s chin up and kissed his cheeks. He tasted salt when he kissed Sherlock’s half-closed eyes.

John curled his arm behind Sherlock’s neck and pressed his face against Sherlock’s hair. “I realised when I shot the fireplace, that I would do anything for you, forgive you anything.” He waited until he caught Sherlock’s eye. “Don’t take that as encouragement.”

Sherlock shook his head and started to fall backwards.

“No,” John said and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, held him upright. “Not yet. I can wait for that pleasure. Be patient.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit,” Sherlock said, attempting a smile.

“Let me try to relieve the tedium,” John murmured. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock’s hands rose to John’s shoulders, clutched at them.

“Patience,” John hummed.

Sherlock kneaded the muscles of John’s arm, eyes squeezed shut. “Tell me the dream you liked best, then,” Sherlock said, drawing back.

John chuckled and loosened his hold. “That, you already know. Lucky for me, it was one we could manage in our current condition.” He ran his palms down Sherlock’s arms, paused with them splayed on Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock huffed. “Second best, then.”

“So you are admitting that you were dreaming about me?” John said, leaning in and closing his lips around a rosy nipple.

Sherlock settled onto his heels.

John’s mouth recaptured the nipple, his thumbs rubbing along the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock spread them apart. “I suppose daydreaming would be the more accurate term.”

One of John’s hands closed around Sherlock’s balls. “Better and better,” he said and bowed until he could draw the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

Sherlock exhaled noisily, bracing himself on one hand and clutching John’s forearm harder with the other. “Can you guess mine?” Sherlock asked, his breath failing at the end of the question.

John suckled leisurely and Sherlock let his head fall back.

He rolled it along his shoulders, as John’s fingers slipped behind his balls. Sherlock raised his hips.

John opened his mouth, gave a farewell lick before he sat up. “Your favourite will have to wait until we’re healed.”

“A lot of them fit that category,” Sherlock said, catching his breath and eyeing John. “How can I be sure you really know which one it is?” 

John stretched towards the nightstand. “Because you told me,” John said, grabbing the slim bottle there, “and I was listening.” He poured oil into his cupped hand, slathered it over his abdomen, down under his balls and up his cock. He darted a glance at Sherlock, settled back on his heels and poured more oil over his hand. “My arm around your waist would not be a pleasant thing right now.” John rubbed the dripping oil over his thighs and back up over his cock. “My hands on your hips though…” John patted his thighs. “Care to come closer, Mr Holmes?"

“I’m not sure I recognise this one,” Sherlock said, shifting forward on his knees.

“Not yet,” John said and stretched towards the nightstand again. This time he clicked off the light before sitting back on his heels facing the head of the bed.

“I was enjoying watching,” Sherlock complained.

John grasped at Sherlock’s hip with an oily hand and guided Sherlock closer. “Just feel it for a while,” John said as Sherlock settled astride his thighs.

Holding the lip of the bottle against his palm, John poured more oil. It dripped between them. He rubbed the rest over Sherlock’s chest, circling each nipple before slipping lower.

“Hmm,” Sherlock murmured, relaxing against John, head on John’s shoulder, a hand curved around John’s neck.

John oiled Sherlock’s sides, rubbing low around his hips and kneading his buttocks.

Sherlock brushed through the short hairs along the nape of John’s neck. “Tactile enhancement due to visual deprivation.” His lips found the skin of John’s neck. He drew it between his teeth and suckled.

John’s fingers clung to the firm flesh they held. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled against John’s skin.

John dragged his fingertips over Sherlock’s hips, pausing to stroke the tops of Sherlock’s thighs and edge his thumbs into the crease of his groin.

Sherlock responded with his teeth, biting at the base of John’s neck.

John answered with his hand at the base of Sherlock’s cock, squeezing once and sliding higher.

“I want to see,” Sherlock said, rolling off John’s shoulder and tucking his chin to stare into the darkness between them.

“Light the candle,” John replied, squeezing and stroking in an ever tighter rhythm.

“I don’t want to get up now,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t, then,” John said, reaching out with his thumb to grasp his cock as well. They slipped against one another in his oily grip.

Sherlock held his breath.

John pressed their cocks close, and closer still, skimming his thumb across the heads at the apex of each stroke, clenching his hand at the base on his descent.

Sherlock thrust into John’s grip and moaned. “I want to see what we look like together.”

The candlewick smoked and sparked. The flame bloomed. It was doubled in the mirrors, glinted off the metal and the glass.

John’s hand gleamed as it stroked, the shadows on the wall shifting as his wrist moved.

“I dreamt it like this,” Sherlock whispered. His hips tilted forward, up into John’s grasp and back and away.

John stroked faster. “One of us did,” he said, the fingers of his other hand digging into the side of Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock’s shoulders hunched, his thighs tensed. He groaned.

“Beautiful,” John panted as Sherlock spilled over his hand.

Sherlock groaned again.

“Feels beautiful,” John gasped. His hand stroked and grasped and stroked again. The flex of his thighs lifted them both to their knees.

*** 

“Just open your legs a little wider.”

“I could do the bottom half myself,” John said.

“You’d end up splashing at least the stitches on your lower back trying,” Sherlock said, rinsing the flannel and hanging it on the towel rail. He tapped John behind the knee.

John stretched out an arm for balance and lifted his foot to the rim of the bath.

Sherlock lathered his hands and started washing the inside of John’s thigh.

“You just like doing this,” John concluded.

Sherlock slipped his hands under John’s balls and soaped them thoroughly. “And you don’t?”

John closed his eyes for a moment as his perineum was thoroughly cleansed. “But I’m your doctor,” he offered weakly.

“And I want to make sure Mike’s meticulous handiwork isn’t damaged by careless bathing,” Sherlock said. He rinsed his hands and lathered them anew.

“How do you know it’s Mike’s handiwork?" John asked. He peeked at the top of Sherlock’s head between his legs and closed his eyes again.

“He stitched me up a few times before I had a doctor in residence,” Sherlock said. “What did you tell him had happened to you?”

“I couldn't decide between describing the injuries as psychogenic or supernatural, so I didn’t offer any explanation,” John said, “and he didn’t ask.”

“The soul of discretion, Mike,” Sherlock said, taking the flannel and running it under the tap. He wiped the soap off John, rinsed the flannel once more and wiped again. “I think you should turn around for the next part,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, nurse,” John replied and turned.

“Bend forward a little,” Sherlock said.

John complied.

“Perfect,” Sherlock said.

***


End file.
